


Of Angels and Demons.

by Intomniac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Jo Harvelle, Demon Dean Winchester, F/M, Human Castiel, deanmon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 10:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13855494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intomniac/pseuds/Intomniac
Summary: Castiel decides that he's failed the Winchesters a few too many times when Dean becomes a Demon. Deciding to try his luck at being a Dad to the human girl who has been in and out of homes aimlessly, Castiel resumes the place of Jimmy Novak after bringing back a certain blonde hunter who knows how to Deal with the brothers thanks to a few years of practice, mixed with a little drinking, a little affection and a little hard-assery. You know, before she died.What's going to happen when Jo spreads those new wings and starts butting heads with a very stubbourn Deanmon





	1. Rise and Shine

Castiel stood over the body that had been recreated for her. 

The body that had been reassembled, healed, life breathed back into it. 

He looked her over carefully before opening the small glass phylactery in his hands, bringing a hand to her forehead, the other to her chest while chanting softly in enochian, the soul closed gently in his fist before he closed his eyes and reached into her, physically inserting his hand into her body, releasing the soul inside her.

The body spasmed beneath him; soul imprinting on the empty shell, eyes closed, tears seeping from beneath her eyelids as the pain and nerve endings fired and agony ripped through the body as the celestial being touched the body's inner recesses. 

He pulled his hand from her form and continued to chant quietly and he slit the skin beneath his throat, fighting through the pain to remove his grace, Grace that, freely given, would make the woman an angel.

He watched as the grace joined with her, slipping past her parted lips as her chest heaved, and a light glowed brightly beneath her closed eyes; a mixture of blue and white as he struggled to keep from collapsing from exhaustion.

"Open your eyes, Jo Harvelle, and greet your new life as the Guardian Angel of Dean Winchester." he whispered gruffly.

Castiel had long since decided it was time to give up his lot in life as an angel, and only recently had he found a true purpose; being a father to the human girl he'd left alone.

Claire Novak.

Now, without guilt, he could assume Jimmy's life, and Dean, who had been lost recently to Hell, who had become a demon, would have someone he trusted, someone he'd once admitted to loving, watching over him.

Joanna Beth Harvelle’s deep chocolate eyes flickered open with a light flutter of feathery blonde lashes and gradually warmed to a lively amber.


	2. To Hell and Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel decides that he's failed the Winchesters a few too many times when Dean becomes a Demon. Deciding to try his luck at being a Dad to the human girl who has been in and out of homes aimlessly, Castiel resumes the place of Jimmy Novak after bringing back a certain blonde hunter who knows how to Deal with the brothers thanks to a few years of practice, mixed with a little drinking, a little affection and a little hard-assery. You know, before she died.
> 
> What's going to happen when Jo spreads those new wings and starts butting heads with a very stubbourn Deanmon?
> 
> Chapter 2: Deanmon hasn't a clue what's going on topside, and frankly, he couldn't care less. Nitpicking the King of Hell and finding ways to fill his time, he hasn't put much thought into the ones he left behind.
> 
> At least; no one would think so, looking at him.

"Dammit Crowley!" Dean snarled angrily, black eyes deeper than the void, red around the rims. 

"I told you I didn't want to torture people or collect souls, but I sure as hell don't want to raise Hell Hounds!"

His voice snapped and caused uneasy growls and whimpers around him and the exasperated King of Hell, glaring through red eyes over the rim of a liquid too red and too thick to be wine.

"You're a bloody Demon, you ungrateful Moron! You're going to have to start pulling your own Weight around here. You like Dogs, take to the hounds. You won't have to torture anyone, and you won't have to deal with angels or humans. Before you give me that spiel about your precious blonde being killed by Hounds, or your own Grizzly death, those weren't my hounds. My hounds are much better behaved." He said stuffily, stroking the head of his favorite female, Juliette. 

His voice, heavy with the accent that he had grown into in his human years, was tired, almost at wit's end.

"Give it a try Dean. An hour with the Pups and you'll melt like an ice cream cone." The King of Hell was nearly pleading with Dean; he had things to do, and while he had come to value Dean and the shenanigans they got up to, he had a job and he'd be damned if he was going to let someone else elbow in on his territory because he was busy baby sitting the damned Hunter turned demon.

The Knight of Hell sneered contemptuously. He highly doubted that would be the case, but he did like dogs... and he wouldn't have to really do anything that was against his moral compass, skewed as it was.

"Fine." He growled quietly, reaching down to lift up a small, furry bag of bones with a slowly growing, albeit reluctant grin.

The hell dogs looked a bit like a doberman, mixed with a rottweiler. Dean didn't know much about dog breeds, but Crowley had once mentioned that they were descended from a number of Beauceron that had been experimented on and twisted, melded with human consciousnesses by a demented scientist in World War two. Whether it was true, or the King of Hell was just telling him stories to pass a few drunken hours he didn't really know.

Even as he headed back to the door he'd come through, heading towards the kennel, flashes of Jo's pale face covered in blood as it seeped from deep claw marks that ravaged her entire upper torso, barely able to keep her insides from spilling out. 

As a demon the memory of that sight shouldn't have been enough to make his skin crawl or to send that icy chill down his spine, but remembering the pain in her eyes, pleading for him to do something to make it stop, and her voice whispering in his ear, her breath already reedy, that resounding memory of that death rattle squeezing his dead, unbeating heart... He looked down at the puppy in his hands and sighed, setting it on the floor of the kennel with it's litter mates. 

He was a demon; he shouldn't be remembering things... meaningless things... like this.


	3. Memories...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo and Dean get to thinking about some of the last memories from when they were human. 
> 
> Jo remembers one of her first failures as a solo hunter; and Dean remembers the lonely moments he spent clinging to his humanity as the Dark came calling.

Jo was quiet as she walked through a garden that was too perfect to be any place on earth. There were flowers from all over, growing in one place. Hibiscus, Roses, Dahlias, Orchids, Lilies, Lotuses, Laurels, Queen Anne's Lace, and Proteas, a unique looking flower; also one of the oldest flowers in the history of mankind, dating back at least 300 million years. There were willow trees, angel oaks, wisterias, beech and dragonblood trees surrounding her. This place was like the best of every place she'd ever wanted to see when she was alive. 

Sitting on a bench beneath the bowing branches of the old angel oak, her eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of the flowers around her. Castiel had told her before he'd left that if she spent time meditating and listening, she might be able to hear Dean. He told her the best thring she could do was open her mind, free her thoughts and let her mind wander naturally.

Listening to the air blow through the trees, she let her mind drift away, a memory from when she'd first struck out on her own as a hunter rising to the surface.

The stagnancy was almost overwhelming as she made her way into the dilapidated building.

The wooden walls were charred, little more than scarred charcoal with fractures running down its face like great claw marks. The lightest breeze caused a shift in the ash, grim sooty shroud rising from the floor in wispy curls. As her feet carried her further across the old, blistered and ruptured linoleum, her eyes scanned over the long-dried pools of boiled glue that had risen from beneath the cheap linoleum to paint the surface in sticky abstract splotches that gave made her think of a morbid sort of Rorschach Test. 'What does that shape make you think of?' Whispered a voice somewhere in the back of her mind as she came to a stop beside a large, dark form seared into the foundation which had shifted from false tile to cement.

The forlorn image long left by a suffocated, smothered shape was the scorched imprint left behind from a person who had succumbed to the smoke and flames and lay dying, not far from a window that had, at some point, burst outwards during the blaze. She knelt and touched the singed stone with light fingers, and for a moment, there was a vision in her mind of flames crackling, flickering across the ceiling above her as if she was lying on her back looking up. Streams of flames that scored the plaster ceiling with stripes that slowly took the form of a star within a circle, chilling the blood in her veins before she pulled her fingers away and stood again.

The air around her changed from the flat, tepid emptiness to a brackish grey, heavy with particles as the ash rose higher, exacerbated by her footsteps. It was like a smoke machine billowing from the back of a broken down stage, or a mist rolling in over the ruins of an old manor. There was something foreboding about the view as her feet disappeared into the embrace of the tumultuous haze of debris.

The aura of misery hung heavy in the air, far beyond what might have started out as a "subtle chill" and creeping towards "alarming silence". Heaviness pushed against her with a pressure similar to being in deep water, there was a vibration in her ears like someone was screaming but the pitch was too high to register. It was hard to breathe between the mounting anxiety and the heat, but when she gulped a breath, a faint smell hit her hard enough to make her stomach twist and her gag reflex spasm. It was the putrid scent of death; the wet fleshy smell mixed with sour milk, body odor and bodily functions left to stew. Her stomach rebelled and she nearly lost what little she'd managed to eat that morning. The thought of adding yet another acrid, astringent odor to the air around her gave her the strength to avoid doing just that and she stumbled further into the recesses of the old home.

The broken stone walls should have been cold in the middle of November, especially when it was barely forty-five degrees outside, but the home had burned down three years ago and there was something about the house that remained haunted with the stifling heat.

As she got deeper into the wreckage she came across an open doorway with a flight of stairs leading down into the blackness. There was no question that this was the place the aroma originated from, it was so strong her knees went weak and she had to grip the brick doorway. There was something else lingering down below, a different fragrance. Like garbage left in the rain, mixed with fertilizer, left to stew in a rusting barrel. The pungent tang of copper and the sting of acid in the air made her eyes burn and tear up. 

Her heart was pounding so loud she could barely hear the quiet creaks and groans of the old house's structure until she heard a rattling, airy hiss from beneath her. She shrieked, leaping back away from the doorway, blundering over coal charred beams long since fallen and she winced, crying out as a shard of glass from a broken window sliced it’s way up the inside of her arm as she collapsed backward. Blood pooled around her as she struggled to her feet and she quickly grew dizzy as the crimson seeped and poured freely from her arm. She swayed whilst working to pull her old brown leather belt free from her too-baggy, distressed hand-me-down jeans, grimacing as they slid down to hang low on her hips, just wide enough to keep them from falling to her knees. The torn charcoal colored denim was soon stained maroon with her blood and pitch from the soot surrounding her, her khaki tank top took the worst of the imbruing, looking a morbid sort of tie-dye where it clung to her body, wet and tacky.

With shaking hands, she looped the belt around her arm and pulled it tight before tying it in place with her good hand and her teeth. She leaned against the wall, listening hard for the sound she'd heard before as she wrapped her throbbing arm in her thin knit umber jacket, holding it tight against her side. She exhaled through clenched teeth and was ready to make her exit until movement caught her eye.

She went deathly still and watched as a scene appeared in the pool of blood at her feet. Slowly the red bleached away and the liquid became clear, and as she stared unblinkingly, it started to rise into the air becoming mirror like before her own self-image inside of it began to warp into a bizarre scene that was faded like a dream or a forgotten memory.

It was hard to see her at first, the fog that fell over the mire made her translucent, ghastly form waiver. It wasn’t her form that sent shivers down the spine, however. The long, fraying rope that hung from the lowest, twisting, curling branch began to twine and broaden, becoming one with the long hair that sprouted from the childlike figure. She appeared to sit on air, arms out wide, feet plunging back, then forward, as if she played gaily on a swing, rather than the gruesome truth of it.

A sinister, eerie sort of giggle christened the air and the child’s head began to turn… and turn… and where eyes might have peered from sickly gray pallor, empty obsidian holes dripped an effervescent sludge that bubbled and trickled- not down her face as a fluid might be expected, but up into the air, the black viscous tar tainting the opacity of the lackluster murk and turning the swirls in the low hanging clouds an oily silver; tossed about by the howling breeze, inky and tepid.

Soon the child’s face split nearly in half, starting at the mouth, spreading nearly to the ears and then her head twisted further around and the bleak gaping abyss that was her inside became hidden from sight. Her body began to twitch and contort, jerking and scrambling in unnatural shapes and speeds that left disorienting mirages in its place accompanied by a noise that sounded like nails raking across glass, screeching a word, a name, over and over.

The mirror began to fade to dusk and the shape shimmered there for a minute before taking the form of a headless body, lunging at her with dagger like talons aimed for her eyes and heart. 

She screamed and bolted down the nearest hall, falling across an open doorway as her boot caught in the raised wood, her body twisting as she plunged down a set of stone steps head first, platinum and ash blonde hair billowing like a flag of surrender, the cold cement beneath her head registering with the pain as she heard the echoing cackle of a child behind her before her eyes blurred with shadows and her world went out.

Opening her amber eyes again slowly, she frowned, her brows furrowing as she tried to shake off the memory of the feeling she'd gotten after her first failure, realizing she was in way over her head. 

Frustrated because she still hadn't sensed Dean, she crossed her arms, closing her eyes again.

Dean was sitting on a stool at the back of the kennel, watching a small litter of pups, barely four weeks old, or at least, he felt like it had been at least that long. Keeping Time in hell was hard sometimes, but he was starting to get used to it; unfortunate as that thought was. 

The pups were starting to slow down, and soon they were toddling back into the dark crevasse in the wall that served as their nest, the narrow opening big enough for the adult hellhounds to move in and out of, the inside a padded, dark, warm cell. There were three others like it along the wall, and on the other side a matching row. 

Dean dropped the wire door across the opening and locked it before he turned to leave the kennel, checking the doors on the other Dens along the way out. He moved through the halls, this particular part of hell was one of the only quiet areas in this damned place, dark halls faintly illuminated in a red glow. He followed all too familiar pathways to a room that had been assigned to him by Crowley. 

Shutting the door behind him, he moved into the room and collapsed on the bed. He listened to the empty silence and a memory came to his mind unbidden of a time not unlike this when he was still human, fighting the darkness of the mark, haunted by nightmares of the first time he'd been in hell when he'd sold his soul. 

As much as he hated remembering anything about when he was human, he couldn't seem to shake the memory. Black eyes slid closed and the memory swept over him.

Dean had been home for what was probably the first time in a few days. The bunker felt strangely empty, no Kevin... Sam was on a hunting trip and well... Dean wasn't really sure where Castiel was right then; but truthfully, he'd been avoiding the angel for some time by that point.

Dean looked around the room and he scowled. He could barely stomach food anymore... It had no taste, it was like putting a block of Ash in his mouth. He couldn't sleep, his mind wouldn't shut down, wouldn't let him be at peace even for a minute... 

Crowley had cut him off drinking and Dean'd gotten pissy and walked home to continue drinking; only to find there was no alcohol to be had in the bunker.  
Sam had his car and he had infuriating boredom. 

Dean took to prowling the halls, he'd torn his room apart, throwing knives into the ceiling, throwing breakable things at the wall, tearing into his pillows for the satisfaction of the tearing sound.

Crowley had taken the First Blade from Dean and the Mark burned with a fierceness that threatened to engulf him. 

There was a blackness at his core that was reaching out and rearing its ugly head and every time he tried to overcome it, it came back twice as strong. 

He went to the living area of the Bunker, toying with the mark in aggravation before tugging the sleeve down, worried Sam or Castiel might walk in and see him. 

He didn't know how to explain, didn't know the words to say. He didn't want to talk... 

He sat down, and he closed his eyes, seeing red and black shapes swirling around behind his eyelids, and a part of him that had been born in Hell was clawing its way to the front of his mind with a sick sense of anticipation for his next kill and Dean's stomach turned. 

This wasn't who he was. 

He didn't want to be This Thing. 

This Monster. 

He didn't want to kill, to destroy, the things inside that he felt frightened him, but he held it all together behind dull eyes and a calm exterior when others were there to see him.

He'd stood up and he'd carried himself numbly back to his room, sitting on the cold floor and leaning back against the bed, breathing deeply, trying to swallow back the beast and focus.

Focus... Yeah. Right.

Jo felt it then; a darkness at the edge of her awareness. She'd never felt anything so empty, so fractured and broken, and the blackness that seeped into her mind was heavy and cold. She knew, as she touched that darkness and focused in on it, pinpointing the knowledge that it was nowhere on earth. Without a moment of doubt, she knew it was Dean. 

The demon that he had become. 

The new angel wasn't strong enough or sure enough of her abilities to go to him... not yet. But soon. Soon Jo would find him, even if it meant traveling into the pits of hell herself and dragging him back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's read my work before might notice that a part of this (Dean's memory) is reused from another fic I had posted for awhile. When I decided to start this one, I decided to retire the old storyline and re-purpose some of the work because it was one of my favorite, deeper pieces for 'Dark Dean'.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I thought it might be interesting to explore another popular Dean Winchester ship - Jo/Dean. Sooo, I decided Deanmon needed some Angel Jo to butt heads with. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think. 
> 
> By the way; keep your eyes open for updates on some of my older works, and a rewrite of another!


End file.
